Her anger died and she eyed him. "And there you're right, you may dipind, marm," observed Terence. But here was a girl—she must be a girl, since she was his daughter and pat-able—imitating the woman quite remarkably and cleverly. "But your dreadful projects will recoil on your own head. No! I do not even know that he cares for me. She makes me feel terribly old-fashioned.
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